Catherine Coulter - Riptide

“There’s one thing I am sure about now, Adam. I’m his reason for living, probably his only reason now. That’s why he’s leaving a trail of death. He doesn’t care about himself anymore. He just wants me dead. And Becca, too. I’m thinking that Becca should head out to Seattle or maybe even Honolulu.”

“Yeah, right. You be the one to convince her of that, okay? She’s just found you. You believe for a single second that she’d just pull out now, be willing to say sayonara to the father she just met?”

“Probably not.” Thomas sighed. “She’s still so wary of me. It’s like she can’t make up her mind whether to hug me or slug me for leaving her and her mother.”

“I’m thinking she wants to do both. At least now you two are together. The rest will come, Thomas, just be patient. For God’s sake, she’s known you for twenty-four hours.”

“You’re right, of course. But-never mind. Jesus, Krimakov just went right in there and killed everyone,” Thomas said. “Everyone, without hesitation. To flush me out that first time, he released Becca. I can’t imagine what he’d do to her now that she’s with me. Well, yes I can. He’d kill her with no more remorse than when he killed all the others. And yes, there’s no doubt in my mind that he believes she’s with me now. Damnation, he had a silencer on the gun, Adam.”

“Yes.”

“Agent Marlane had six shots pumped into her. He saw that the male agent wasn’t me, knew he’d been set up, and went berserk. Dell Carson, the agent playing me, had his gun out, but he didn’t have time to fire. Neither did Agent Marlane.”

“Yes. I know.”

“How the hell did he get away? Hawley had undercover folk stationed all over that floor and the exits.”

Adam shook his head. “His disguise must have been something else. Maybe he even dolled himself up as a woman. Who knows? Do you remember if Krimakov did disguises back then?”

Thomas leaned against the corridor wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “No. But it’s been so many years, Adam, too many. What troubles me, and I know I can’t let it, is that Becca just can’t be sure that the guy who took her, the guy on the phone to her, was older.” Thomas shook his head. “Another thing. Vasili was fluent in English, but I’ve read the transcripts of the conversations he had with Becca. It sounds so unlike him. And what he wrote, what he said to her, what he did. Calling himself her boyfriend, murdering Linda Cartwright, then digging her up, smashing her face, all as a sick joke to drive Becca over the edge. That’s the behavior of a psychopath, Adam. Krimakov wasn’t a psychopath. He was supremely arrogant, but as sane as I was.”

“Whatever Krimakov was back then, he’s changed,” Adam said. “Who knows what’s happened to him during the past twenty years? Don’t forget all those killings: a second wife, two children, the guy whose password he used to get into the computer system to expunge all his personal data, killing someone to fake his own accidental death in that car accident. How many more we don’t know about? And that brings up another question. You said that you believe you’re now his only focus, his purpose for living. What about his son? He’s in that burn clinic in Switzerland. He doesn’t care about him anymore? Or maybe that wasn’t an accident, either, and he tried to kill him, too?”

“I don’t know.”

Adam said, “Maybe he was always over the top and he’s just gotten more so, and maybe that goes to explain why he appears not to be worrying about his son. No, Thomas, don’t argue with me. He’s now here-in a foreign country to him-no longer in Crete. He’s on our turf, and he probably hasn’t been here for all that long.”

“Listen, Adam, we don’t know that. Officially, Vasili Krimakov hasn’t come into this country in the past fifteen years. He was here once back in the mid-eighties, checking around, trying to sniff me out. That was when he killed that assistant of mine simply because he’d seen her with me and decided that she was my mistress. But I got away that time and he left, returned to Crete. We’ve learned he went to England a number of times, but he hasn’t gone back there recently. Unofficially, he could have bounced in and out of the United States with a dozen different phony passports. Who in Greece would catch on to that? Or if they did, even care?”

“Still, we have to assume that he was in Crete most of the time. For God’s sake, he was married. He eventually had a kid with this woman. So he simply can’t know his way around here all that well.”

Thomas said, “Becca is right. He’s a monster, no matter the excuses I make for the man I knew more than twenty years ago. Of course I didn’t really know him. He was just a target to me, always on the opposite side, the black king to checkmate. Now we’re forced to wait, to gnaw our elbows. Krimakov will find us, count on it.

“Oh yeah, Tellie Hawley and Scratch Cobb are coming tomorrow morning to speak to Becca. Maybe that’ll be good. I think she liked them both when she met them in New York. Maybe she’ll remember more talking to them. They’re pretty desperate, as you can well imagine. Hawley is eating himself alive with guilt. They were his agents, all four of them, and now they’re dead.”

“Yes,” Adam said, and streaked his fingers through his hair, sending it on end. “Since Savich found Krimakov’s apartment in Iráklion, our people will go in. Just maybe they’ll find something.”

Becca leaned her forehead against the closed door, listening to their voices as they moved off down the hall. She turned then and leaned back against the door, her arms crossed over her chest, just as Adam had done when he’d first come into her room. She closed her eyes.

He’d murdered four more people. Like Thomas, she knew Krimakov would find them. It was as if he were somehow programmed to find Thomas and kill him. And her, too, of course. He would do anything, go anywhere, kill anyone in his way, to gain his objective.

How could he have killed his wife and her two children, his stepchildren? And his own son was in a burn hospital in Switzerland. Had that one truly been an accident? No, there were no accidents when it came to Krimakov. It was beyond terrifying.

She returned to her bed, curled up, hugging her arms around her knees. It was warm, very warm, but she was cold all the way to her bone marrow. Suddenly, she heard her mother’s voice, sharp with impatience, telling her that if she even considered going out with Tim Hardaway-that juvenile delinquent-she would lock her in a closet for a month. Now she smiled with the memory; then, at sixteen, she had believed her life was over. She wondered what her mother would think of Adam. She smiled, then shivered a bit, remembering that hard, fast kiss. Her mother, she thought, would love Adam.

Suddenly, she heard a whispery sound. She jerked up in bed, her heart pounding, and looked toward the window. Again, that whispery brushing sound. Her heart pumping fast and faster now, she walked over and forced herself to look outside. There was an oak tree there, the end of one leaf-laden branch lightly brushing its leaves over the windowpane.

But he was close, she knew that. On her way back to bed, she kept looking over her shoulder out the bedroom window. She didn’t want to speak to any more agents. Oh God, just how close was he?

How close?

Now everyone in the world knew about Krimakov. Adam watched the old photograph of him flash on CNN and all the major networks. Then it was set beside the photograph the CIA artist had aged, showing what Krimakov would probably look like today. It was a fine job. With luck, it matched enough so he could be recognized. Becca hadn’t remembered anything more, however, when she’d looked at the photos.